


I'm With Butthead (or, Reasons Not to De-Lurk When Your Partner's Internet Famous)

by irisbleufic



Series: One Step Away 'Verse (& Related Excursions) [11]
Category: Back to the Future (Movies)
Genre: Blogging, Conventions, Established Relationship, Family, Geeks, Idiots in Love, Internet, M/M, Multi, Nerdiness, Science Boyfriends, Science Bros, Science Fiction, Science Husbands, Siblings
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-26
Updated: 2015-10-26
Packaged: 2018-04-28 05:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 9,700
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5079958
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/irisbleufic/pseuds/irisbleufic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Fan conventions were a phenomenon that had been on Marty's social radar for </i>just <i>long enough that he'd learned to tolerate them.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	I'm With Butthead (or, Reasons Not to De-Lurk When Your Partner's Internet Famous)

**Author's Note:**

> Another side-adventure for  **[OSA 'Verse](http://archiveofourown.org/series/322148)**. Somebody wanted October 21st, 2015 to appear in a story since the final section of  ** _[Make It A Good One](http://archiveofourown.org/works/3298754/chapters/9271522) _** is set in September 2015. I had an idea re: Doc receiving con invites on account of the popularity of his newspaper-column-turned-blogging-venture (which is something I hadn't had time to cover in  _MIAGO_ ), and this is the result. Also, I've finished and readied it for posting in the early hours of October 26th; let us not forget [ **that date's significance**](http://backtothefuture.wikia.com/wiki/October_26), too.

**October 3, 2015**

Fan conventions were a phenomenon that had been on Marty's social radar for _just_ long enough that he'd learned to tolerate them. Within about six months of _A Match Made in Space_ being released, George McFly had begun to get at least half a dozen panelist and guest-of-honor invites per year. He'd done the con thing hardcore between 1986 and 2000, after which point he'd retired from such appearances. By then, neither George's back, nor Lorraine's temper were having it. He took up golf instead.

(The sequel, _Mars Is No Place to Raise Your Children_ , had out-sold its predecessor more on account of the Elton John lyric-reference in the title than superior content; as trilogies went, while solid, this one wasn't destined to be _The Godfather_. The final installment, _Points Elsewhere_ , thanks to its art-house weirdness, had only seemed to resonate with the fiercest of George's devotees. Marty had a soft spot for one of the background romances in it, and who could blame him? Doc liked to go around telling people they'd been George's inspiration for that pair of characters. It had made its way onto a ton of LGBTQIA+ recommendation and book-club lists.)

Around the same time, in the spring of 1999 when most people were busy shrieking about the supposedly impending Y2K Bug, Doc had retired his newspaper column and decided to take up this thing called _blogging_ instead. The emergence of OpenDiary and LiveJournal had appealed to Doc's lazier, more scattershot sensibilities; he'd abandoned the website he'd been maintaining for those forward-thinking people who preferred to email him responses to his columns. Marty had watched him dither around with an OD account for six months, playing to a readership of _maybe_ a hundred, before snagging a LiveJournal invite code from Ellie.

("It's the beginning of the end, McFly," Tiff had told him grimly. "Before you know it, the likes of you and me will be what they're calling Computer Widows. I swear El's updating that thing every night from like ten o'clock until three in the goddamn morning. I miss sleeping with my wife.")

What happened at that point had been some kind of bizarre miracle: Doc's blog posts, for the most part in the form of science columns (but with more charts, graphs, hypertext, and video clips of himself being generally, kissably ridiculous), had snagged him a following of twelve hundred people within the next six months alone. And that had been only the people he could track because _they_ had LJ accounts, too. At any given time, Doc had attempted to run projections on his non-registered readership by tracking anonymous-comment numbers. He was probably looking at closer to two thousand ardent followers. Marty had pointed out that it sure beat illegible fanmail.

("Just _think_ , Marty!" Lorraine had gushed. "If Emmett plays his cards right, somebody might want to anthologize his material and offer him a book deal! This internet thing's amazing.")

Marty couldn't have predicted the next five to six years even if he'd tried, and Doc, for all his attempts at modeling, probably couldn't have, either. The first book had come out in '05, largely composed of print columns and only the most popular of Doc's earliest blog posts; the second had been released in '08 when Doc's publisher had realized just how prolific he was.

Somehow, Marty hadn't found his bed-warmer situation suffering that much, and Tiff had been _pissed_.

("A _New York Times_ Best Seller! What a great wedding present," Ellie had said. "After the shit you guys put up with from ignorant assholes for _years_ , you deserve it. Fuck the haters and celebrate. Take a longer version of your honeymoon. Will they send Doc on a signing tour?")

Doc's convention invites had begun to arrive in 2009. Doc had been elated, if amusingly stunned; Marty had wished he'd been able to claim he was pleasantly shocked, but after seeing how it had gone for his father, no dice. He'd tagged along with George a few times as book-hauling assistant and all-around flunky. Doc had also tagged along for a couple of those, and he'd vanished into the rush of attending panels, leaving Marty to either stick to his father's side like glue or hide in the hotel room watching bad Pay-Per-View. Marty had discovered something terrible, namely: he couldn't actually stand crowds, at least not when he was in the crush of them instead of onstage.

("People ask after you, Marty," Doc had sighed after getting home from his third or fourth such venture, in early 2010. "I mention you just often enough on the blog, and of _course_ the Wikipedia mavens have documented what little of your existence they're able. Why don't you come along next time? The hotels are invariably _pret_ ty nice. And I miss you.")

Marty, nobody to resist those eyes of Doc's when he got to pleading, had spent the next four years making his cautious re-entry into the world of family con-support. He attended around a third of the twenty-two appearances Doc made between 2010 and 2013, by the end of which stretch he'd acquired some kind of precious cult-status amongst Doc's following. People sometimes asked him to sign various copies of Doc's and his father's books, which wasn't even the strangest thing about it. It was the value of a _sighting_ , obtaining proof that you'd actually run into the guy who'd been lucky enough to monopolize Doc Brown's existence for the better part of thirty years.

("He's a high-school music teacher," he'd heard a fan say once. "Can you _believe_ that?")

Which brought Marty to now, a chilly October morning in 2015, with Doc having celebrated his ninety-fifth birthday scarcely a month before and this morning's armful of mail seeming particularly weighted in Doc's direction. Marty sifted through envelopes on his way back up the driveway, shuffling bills to the bottom of the pile. Fanmail, fanmail, fanmail—wait, _BloggerCon_? Wasn't that a thing Doc had said died in, like, 2006 or 2007? He'd seemed sorry he'd never gotten to go, especially since the final one had been held in San Francisco.

"Hey, Doc," Marty said, kicking his flip-flops off at the front door before making his way back to the kitchen where Doc was halfway to taking their persnickety toaster apart. "Did you register for some kind of nerd-fest this month and then forget to tell me?" he asked, waving the envelope.

"Yes," said Doc, cheerfully, setting aside his screwdriver. "They've asked me to give the keynote and sit on a few panels. It's got relatively little to do with BloggerCon as it first existed, of course, but why not use the name if the instigators of the original event are willing to let you?"

"When's it running?" Marty sighed, taking a seat at the table, where Doc had kindly left him the first few pieces of toast that had come out unscathed. "November or so? I don't know if I can get the time off on short notice." He took the lid off the butter dish. "I'm not up to it anyway."

Doc came over to fish through the pile of mail, excited as a kid at Christmas. He took his BloggerCon envelope, and then, several envelopes further down the pile, frowned at Marty and handed him one that looked almost identical. "It would appear they've sent you something, too."

Marty blinked, reaching for it, wondering how he could've missed that. "I can tell you one thing for sure, I _didn't_ register," he said, tearing into the correspondence while Doc opened his. "I had no idea this was going on." He scanned a few enclosed leaflets, which were largely glossy and informational, but the personalized letter gave him pause. "They want me to sit on a panel. Did Dad give them my name or something? Or is one of your stalkers on the programming committee?"

Doc snatched Marty's letter away from him, giving it a once-over. "It would appear your attempts to hide away over the past five years or so have been completely futile," he sighed. " _The Better Half: When Your Partner Is Internet Famous_. Maybe they ought to ask Tiff instead."

"Ellie's not famous on the same scale," Marty pointed out. "Well-respected within the broader sphere of her field, yeah, but mostly she's yakking only to people who understand the complex terminology. This sounds kinda like your fans are sick of having to work so hard to rubberneck."

"You're not obliged," said Doc, mildly. "Even if you turn down the panel, I'd still appreciate your company." He set aside both letters, looking Marty in the eye. "You have some personal days."

"October twenty-first through twenty-fourth, huh?" Marty sighed, tapping the glass of orange juice Doc had also set out for him. "That's Wednesday through Saturday, so I'd need to use up three."

"Two at most," Doc said. "Things don't really get started till about seven o'clock Wednesday evening. We can get there in time as long as you can escape from work an hour early. Think it over for a couple of days," he continued with a shrug. "They're running behind on programming."

"I'd better call Dad and see if he wants to come out for this. He'll have gotten a ton of flyers for it in the mail, what with his blog being almost as popular as yours," said Marty, reaching for Doc's hand. He ate his way through most of a piece of toast while Doc, studying their electric bill, ran his thumb across the backs of Marty's fingers. "I know people are nosy, but I didn't know I was in-demand."

"You're regarded as reclusive," Doc admitted. "Which, given your profession, is understandable."

"How am I reclusive?" Marty replied. "I still play some weekend gigs. People know who I am."

"You barely have a personal email account, Marty. To these people, you're practically off the grid."

Marty thought this over. Maybe such an appearance would give Doc's fans something to talk about for years to come, and they'd be content. Mentions of _M, the long-suffering husband_ on Doc's blog didn't necessarily cut it. "If I say yes to this, will they comp my badge, too?"

"I assume so," Doc said. "My badge and the hotel room have been secured for weeks now."

"You've got clout," Marty said, pulling his hand away so he could butter some toast for Doc. "You'd better wave your wand and _make_ it so. The only thing I'm gonna pay for is on-demand TV."

Doc glanced up, raising an eyebrow at him. "You'd better promise to attend at least the keynote."

" _You'd_ better promise to come to my damn panel if you haven't got a conflict," Marty said.

 

**October 10, 2015**

Saturday mornings at the Joseph-Tannen household were invariably chaotic as hell. There wasn't any polite way of putting it. Tiff and Ellie liked to go biking together from about ten until noon, which meant that either Marty or Doc (or both of them, if Doc wasn't busy figuring out how Twitter worked or writing up the next week's blog post) volunteered for child-minding.

Marty could hear some kind of scuffle within, more of the sneakers-on-tile variety than, say, the temper-tantrum variety. He swallowed and rang the doorbell, wondering which kid would either expect him to gather them up to safety or attempt to barrel past him into the driveway.

The door flew inward before he could even hit the button a second time. Julian, dressed in a _Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles_ t-shirt and his favorite lobster-printed swim trunks from that trip to Massachusetts they'd taken last year when Ellie got asked to guest-lecture at MIT for a semester, shoved past him with a breathless _Hi, Uncle Marty!_ and didn't stop till he'd reached the shoulder of the cul-de-sac.

Susanna was about three seconds behind him.

"Dude, look _out_!" she shrieked, so Marty just stepped aside, back against the door-jamb, watching in consternation as she tore after her brother. "The old man's coming! He sucks at tag!"

Biff stopped short of the throw-rug in front of the door, brandishing his cane. "McFly," he wheezed.

"Hey, _ah_ ," Marty said, not sure whether this counted as one of those moments of Biff-brand humiliation in which a too-flippant greeting could get him in trouble. "Good morning, Biff."

"I stayed over last night," Biff said by way of explanation, catching his breath. "Jo went down to her sister's place again, what can you do? I told the girls they could head out early, and I also told 'em to call and give you the morning off for once. I've got the grandkid situation under control."

" _Sure_ you do," said Susanna, smirking as she trotted up to tug on Marty's wrist. "You're always early for stuff. You know that, right? Mom and Tiff haven't even had the chance to leave."

" _Or_ call me, I guess," Marty sighed, giving the eight-year-old's hand a squeeze before a glint at her earlobe caught his eye. He used his free hand to tilt her chin to one side, studying the simple star-shaped steel stud, and then inspected its twin in her other ear. "When did those happen, huh?"

"Princess here wanted to go to the mall last night," said Biff, reaching to tousle Susanna's coppery hair.

"They wouldn't let me get mine done," Julian cut in, scuffing the toes of his sneakers along the driveway as he came back up to join them. "They had _gold_ stars, too. Those are better."

Before Biff could huffily articulate whatever was going to come out of his mouth, Marty said, "I'm pretty sure that's because you're only six. My parents didn't let Linda till she was _ten_."

Susanna, smug in her bright-blue bathing suit and yellow tutu, stuck out her tongue at Julian.

"Hey, you two buttheads get in here," interjected Biff, sternly, "or I'm not gonna fill the kiddie pool out back, you hear me?" He gave Marty a weary look, turning his back as the kids shuffled inside. "Marty, have a seat," he said, already in the kitchen with both kids in tow. "The girls'll be down."

Marty spent about five minutes alone on the living-room sofa, listening to the kids already shouting with glee in the backyard, before Tiff came barreling down the stairs. Barefoot in jeans, a Rolling Stones tee, and unbuttoned flannel shirt, she didn't look ready for a work-out at _all_.

"Ellie's got some kinda thing that's acting like the morning sickness she had with Jules," Tiff sighed. "If it weren't impossible, I'd say she was pregnant. Maybe those leftovers were bad after all."

"Did you, your dad, and the kids eat them, too?" Marty asked. "Nobody else looks ill to me."

"Are you kidding? The kids had those dinosaur-shaped chicken nuggets, which are the only thing either of 'em will eat right now. Dad ended up eating those, too," Tiff sighed, collapsing on the sofa beside Marty. She patted his thigh. "Are you sure you didn't knock up my wife again?"

"I did _not_ impregnate your wife," Marty grumbled. "Somebody else did it for me, but only because you guys were so goddamn persuasive. I wish they had just let Doc be your donor, Jesus."

"Are you telling me you regret Jules, heartbreaker that he is?" Tiff asked, feigning devastation.

"Not a day I'm alive," Marty told her, grinning. "But, hey, let's be honest: we all know how desperately you've always wanted to have Doc's babies. I'm still mad on your behalf."

Tiff shrugged. "Are you kidding? We got a redhead out of the adoption deal. Don't know what kinda brains the kid's got, though," she sighed. "They say she doesn't pay attention in school."

"Yeah, but her grades are okay, right?" Marty asked, concerned. "You haven't mentioned—"

"She's passing most of her subjects, but she still has trouble reading," Tiff said pensively.

Marty nodded, considering Tiff's admission. "Have they let her try any instruments yet?"

"That's not till next year," Tiff replied, pulling the band out of her hair, shaking out her curls before sweeping them up again. She'd let her hair grow as long as it had been when Marty had met her.

"She's gonna be fine," Marty said. "Just make sure you get her enrolled in after-school tutoring."

"You didn't come here to shoot the shit with _me_ ," said Tiff. "Sorry Dad's hogging the kids. He'd take them home for good if I'd let him. They'd go live with you and _Doc_ if I'd let them." She nudged Marty's shoulder with her own, just like she used to. "What's new in Hilldale?"

Marty rubbed his eyes, wishing they'd managed to call him before he'd rolled out of bed. He could've used another hour of sleep, and he also could've used some more of what had lost him that hour in the first place. He and Doc weren't so young anymore, but that didn't matter to either one of them. Marty doubted that many people, at forty-seven, could say their five-years-off-a-hundred partners could still give them a run for their money. He yawned, which was a dead give-away.

"Doc registered for some con in Fresno that asked him to be their guest of honor," he said reluctantly, "and forgot to tell me about it. Even weirder, they're inviting me to sit on a panel."

"Ellie's got a con coming up on the twenty-first," said Tiff, finding Marty's yawn infectious. "I'd have gone, too, but it's some boring-as-fuck blogging deal. Somebody's gotta watch the kids."

"Uh, Tiff," replied Marty, "I think that's it. BloggerCon, not to be confused with the old one?"

"Yeah, it's marketed toward, like, a more sciences-and-media-fandom-nerd population than programmers and techies," said Tiff, narrowing her eyes. "Wait, Doc's _keynoting_ this thing? Why didn't she tell me?" She snorted. "Probably so I'd more willingly stay home with the kids."

"Your Dad would probably love to take them that weekend," Marty replied. "Why not come?"

"Maybe I will," Tiff said. "I'm pretty sure I know the kind of stuff Doc's gonna talk about, but what I'm really wondering is what they think _you_ could have to say. Are you secretly into filk?"

"I only know what that means because _my_ Dad dragged me to a bunch of cons back in the day," Marty said defensively. "And the answer is no. It's a panel on what it's like to be married to somebody who spends lots of time online. I said yes, but I'm afraid I'm gonna disappoint them."

"Man, I'm gonna have to get me some t-shirts made," said Tiff, steepling her fingers beneath her chin. It was an expression Marty tended not to like one bit; it was usually prelude to mischief.

"You've got a ton from ThinkGeek," Marty reminded her. "I don't see how you could need more."

"Hey, _Dad_!" Tiff shouted at top volume. "You left the patio door open, so don't pretend you can't hear me! Wanna take the kids on the twenty-first and keep 'em through the weekend?"

Marty covered his ears, but it wasn't any safeguard against Biff's response and the kids' cheers.

 

**October 21, 2015**

Marty realized only too late what a dead give-away choosing the DeLorean for this trip had been. The utility van was long gone (traded to the Tannens for scrap in 1986, in partial payment for doing some serious restoration on the newly stripped ex-time-machine). While they were on the second incarnation of his beloved Toyota, a truck was somehow less satisfying for longer drives.

He'd no sooner parked the damn thing and helped Doc pull their luggage out from behind the seats than there were already several passers-by, badges already dangling on lanyards around their necks, actually _gaping_. He shouldered both his bag and Doc's, breathing through a stab of panic.

Doc, always flawlessly in control of the situation, closed the remaining open gull-wing door, checked that the car was securely locked, and took Marty's hand just before one of the onlookers could approach him.

"What a warm welcome," he said, waving toward several fans' outstretched smart-phones in a put-that-away gesture. "We've had a long drive, folks. There'll be time for photographs at my panels, and I've got a book-signing session on Saturday."

"Awesome," said one of them, an attractively androgynous thirtysomething with so many earrings that Susanna and Julian would probably both be jealous. "Welcome to Fresno."

"What about him?" asked the slightly younger person standing next to the thirtysomething.

Marty blinked at both of them, not quite understanding. "What... _about_ me?" he ventured.

"Photographs," clarified the thirtysomething's companion. "Are they allowed at your panel?"

"No," Marty said firmly. "I'll sign anything you want, but please don't take any photos, okay?"

The thirtysomething grinned and nodded, almost smug, as if this wasn't any kind of news, but the companion looked disappointed. "Kasey here's a tad behind on your protocol," they said. "That's cool, we won't. The programming committee's good about banning that stuff, so make sure they—"

"How do you keep people from taking photos of you at all those gigs you play up north?" Kasey blurted. "There are a bunch of old photos online, you know. From like ten years ago? If those things were physical objects, they'd be worth a ton. Spotting you is basically a unicorn sighting."

"About ten years ago is when I asked people to stop taking pictures at gigs, too," Marty said, grateful that Doc was tugging at his hand and directing them toward the hotel entrance.

"I guess that makes sense if you're a teacher," said Kasey; meanwhile, the thirtysomething looked like they were about to die of embarrassment for not having been able to shut Kasey up by punching Kasey's arm. "Are you still a teacher? I think that's pretty rad. I want to get an Ed degree, and—"

"It's been great meeting you," Marty said as Doc tugged him through the crowd, "but I've gotta go. How about you come to my panel? Saturday at ten. I'd be glad to answer questions afterward."

Fortuitously, while Doc was busy checking them in and Marty was sitting on one of the plush lobby sofas guarding their luggage (he'd busted out his Aviators with intent to fend off further recognition for the time being), Ellie turned up and hugged the snot out of him. She had two half-size wheelie suitcases in tow, and she looked relieved to have the kids out of her hair.

"Tiff's checking us in," she said, propping the suitcases to further barricade them into the bubble Marty had established, taking a seat beside him. "Those sunglasses draw attention to you, just FYI."

Marty pushed them up into his hair, annoyed. "We just had an, um, encounter in the parking lot."

"Welcome to the world of borrowed glory," said Tiff, striding over with room-key cards in one hand and a pair of badges in the other. "You're kind of a cyberspace legend in your own right, McFly."

"I'd gotten that impression," said Marty, sourly. "Aside from old photos of me playing gigs, what the hell else do they trade in? Anecdotes from when I used to do cons with my dad? He used to talk about me and Linda and Dave like it was nothing. People love embarrassing kid-stories."

"It's mostly on forums and mailing lists," Tiff admitted, busy rummaging in one of the suitcases that Ellie had so carefully positioned. "Photos turn up, including a small handful of ones people have managed to sneak when you weren't looking at a few of the other cons with Doc. They're rare, though, and nobody tweets them or anything as far as I can tell. There's a whole Reddit thread devoted to speculation on how the fuck you and Doc got together in the first place." She tugged out a purple shirt with white lettering that read, _I FANGIRLED DOC BROWN BEFORE IT WAS COOL_. "This is for me to wear to at least one of his panels, or maybe to yours." She shoved it back in the suitcase and went on rummaging; meanwhile, Marty's horrified fascination knew no bounds. "Where was I? Oh, yeah. How you guys got together. Everybody knows from Doc's blog that you guys got married in 2008, so no secret there. And they know from the live clip that HVTV filmed of you guys at the courthouse that you'd been together for like twenty years before _that_. I don't wanna ruin your illusion of privacy or anything, but that's on YouTube."

"I know it's on YouTube," Marty sighed, tugging his sunglasses back down. "At least five hundred of those hits are Doc's and mine. You _really_ underestimate our joint addiction to nostalgia."

Ellie took hold of Marty's hand in an attempt to be reassuring. "People are generally respectful," she said. "They just want to know more about you. Your situation is exceptional, and Doc inspires a lot of people." She frowned slightly. "I wouldn't go on the Reddit thread if I were you, though."

Marty didn't have the heart to tell them he already knew about the Reddit thread, too.

Doc had located it a few years back, and it had been one of the few times that Marty had seen Doc so genuinely, _terrifyingly_ angry that he'd decided Doc's exhortations that he shouldn't look at that thread were worth heeding. Doc had made a chastising post about it, which had gone, at least within the community of both his followers _and_ his critics, something resembling viral.

("You _don't_ fuck with M," Dave had said once, "or Doc Brown will go ape on your ass.")

"Aha!" Tiff exclaimed, waving what looked like a couple of navy blue t-shirts. "Here they are," she said, dropping one of them back on top of the other clothes, holding one up. "Got these made for you and Doc," she said, waving the one she currently held, which said, _I'M WITH BUTTHEAD_. "This one's Doc's," she explained, throwing it down, and then held up the other. "This one's yours," she added, showing off _I AM BUTTHEAD_.

"That's awfully thoughtful of you," Marty said, torn between laughing his ass off and genuinely wanting to smack her upside the head just like her father and any number of his ancestors had done to any number of McFlys. "Somehow, though, I doubt I'll get Doc onboard with wearing those."

"It's the thought that counts, honey," Ellie told Tiff, who looked crestfallen. "They'll wear 'em to bed, at least, right?" she asked Marty. "People can never have too many nightshirts, especially not custom ones with ridiculous in-joke slogans."

"What's all this talk of sleepwear?" Doc asked, wandering over with a pair of manila envelopes and what looked like an _epic_ amount of swag contained in a logo-printed canvas bag. He handed the bag off to Marty, maneuvering past the suitcase blockade with agility that floored pretty much everybody who witnessed it. "I dropped our badges and key-cards in there," he said.

"Tiff got us matching t-shirts, Doc," said Marty, getting to his feet. "Hold those up again?"

Tiff did as she was told with all three shirts, but her infectious sense of mischief had faded.

Doc frowned at the blue pair. "I somehow think those wouldn't be appropriate," he remarked.

"So sleep in 'em like Ellie says, _jeez_ ," said Tiff, tossing the shirts at Marty, who barely summoned the reflexes to catch them. "Nobody's gonna prevent me from wearing mine, got it?"

"Nor should anyone, as, of the three, I find it the most endearing," Doc told her, smiling. He took up the luggage before Marty could protest, tilting his head toward the elevators. "Marty, let's go."

"I'll see you later," he told Ellie and Tiff, relieved to have been rescued again. " _Much_ later."

 

**October 22, 2015**

Marty woke up in a bed that was _almost_ more comfortable than the one they had at home, with the familiar weight of Doc's arm curled around his waist. They were both exhausted after the previous evening's meet-and-greet reception (which had thankfully been limited to the various con committees and other panelists), so it wasn't necessarily a great morning on the being-adventurous front. Slow, warm kisses in the half an hour or so till Doc's alarm went off left Marty tingling; Doc got up, showered, dressed, and then came back to kiss Marty's forehead before heading out.

"I'm having breakfast with some old friends," he murmured. "The keynote's at ten. Don't be late."

"M'not late anymore," Marty muttered, rolling to bury his face in the pillow. "Learned my lesson."

Tiff and Ellie came knocking at nine-thirty. It was a good thing he had no objections to answering the door in a bathrobe and letting them channel-surf while he showered; they weren't going to be late, but they were going to cut it close. Marty got recognized in the elevator on their way down to the main ballroom, so keeping the name-side of his badge flipped around was clearly a futile tactic.

"I have a copy of that EP you and the Wilson siblings released in ninety-eight," said the young woman (her badge helpfully indicated her pronouns), Marissa, shaking Marty's proffered hand. "I know it didn't really sell at the time, but it's worth a lot money to the right person these days."

"I'd better hang onto my last handful of personal copies, then," Marty joked, feeling somewhat less threatened than he had the night before. "In case Doc ever burns the place down again, you know?"

Marissa went slightly pale. "We can't imagine what he must've gone through, what with his parents gone only sixteen years when it happened. Seems like you guys can joke about it now. I'm glad!"

 _There's a lot of bad shit we can joke about now_ , Marty thought, signing her program booklet next to his panel listing without protest. _Most of you will never even know the half of it._

"Doc's got four panels today, what the fuck," Tiff whispered to Marty once the three of them were seated in three of the last remaining seats in the ballroom back row. "You're hardly gonna see him."

"You think I'm not used to that by now?" Marty whispered back, grinning, straightening in his seat as the con chair took the podium and began their boring, yet gracious introduction. "It's cool."

"I'm sitting on two panels today," Ellie interjected, "and then another two I'd like to attend after that. If I've got gaps, should I find you so I can perform guard-duty?" she asked. "You're a sitting duck."

" _Shhh_!" hissed a young man in front of them, turning to face them, his badge bearing all kinds of gamer buttons and the handle _ScienceDude85_. "The Doc's up any second!"

Marty wanted to make a snide remark on the subject of birth-years as part of usernames being really, well, _'90s_ , but he kept his mouth shut and flipped his badge around. "No problem."

ScienceDude's eyes widened; he held up both hands in apology. "Didn't know it was you, man!"

 _At least not everybody knows my face_ , Marty thought, satisfied, applauding along with everyone else as Doc made his way up from the reserved section in the front and took the stand.

Marty had heard this speech, or some version of it, a handful of times in the past couple years. Doc found it necessary to rewrite and add content as per the theme-demands of particular events; also, his fans were lightning-quick to upload shit to YouTube, and he didn't want people to get bored. He hadn't been asked to give a TED Talk yet, which Marty found something of an insult, but Doc didn't seem eager to pursue more than he'd already been offered. He was strangely humble like that.

Doc's address earned a standing ovation. While everyone else was busy applauding, ScienceGuy turned around and asked Marty to sign his program. How surreal, to think this kid had been in diapers when Marty had been scrambling through time in order to prevent all manner of ruin.

As Marty, Tiff, and Ellie attempted to file out of their row, he realized with some chagrin that a _line_ of sorts had formed behind ScienceGuy. It was only five or six people, but _still_.

"His panel's Saturday morning, buttheads," said Tiff, putting on the admittedly impressive old Tannen Intimidation Schtick. "He's gotta make it to his husband's talk, okay? Move it!"

"Hey, Tiff," Marty said, catching Doc's eye from across the distance, waving to him before giving him an an _A-OK_ hand signal. "Are you going to both of Ellie's panels?"

"Yeah, but they're in, like, the next two slots back to back," said Tiff, pushing her way into the aisle so that Marty and Ellie could dash along in her wake to get to the door. "So if you wanna hide in the room till I'm free again, I'll be your goddamn bodyguard for the rest of the day."

"You're the best, Tiff," Marty said, grateful she'd now got them to the nearest elevator without anybody else trying to interfere. "I really mean it. For a long time, I didn't have to worry about this shit because hiding was still relatively easy, but, _uh_. I guess time has a way of catching up."

"Time is the bane of your motherfucking existence," Tiff said under her breath, punching the _UP_ -button until the elevator arrived. "I wonder what these buttheads would think of—"

"They can't know," said Ellie, having been filled in on the bizarre truth of it all around the time the kids had arrived. She hadn't believed a single word that Tiff, Marty, and Doc had said at first, but the hoverboard and a handful of other incontrovertible proofs (a yellowing photograph of Marty lounging on Doc's sofa in 1955 in particular) had clinched it. "So shut your mouth, sweetie."

They escorted him back to the suite he was sharing with Doc, and then rushed off to wherever Ellie's first panel was being held. Marty checked the program booklet just to verify that the first two of Doc's four panels that day were in the same consecutive blocks as Ellie's; following an hour break for lunch, his next two were in the afternoon blocks. No rest for the wicked, it looked like.

Marty wasted some time watching the news. After getting vaguely depressed about the election coverage (all he really cared was that Bernie or Hillary ended up in the White House when all was said and done; Trump gave him the creeps, _had_ given him the creeps from day one), he decided to sleep for a while. The drive had worn him out more than he'd realized.

Marty stripped down to t-shirt and underwear before climbing under the covers. He was out in minutes.

He woke to the feel of Doc's fingers, cool and soothing, against his forehead. Felling sluggish and a bit sweaty from hiding under so many covers, he sighed and shoved at the bedclothes while Doc's weight shifted next to him on the mattress and Doc's fingers threaded through his hair. He hadn't been dreaming, thank God. The number of times he'd awakened to disturbing circumstances in his life had been one too many, and Doc knew that. Doc tugged the covers down and kissed him.

"Lunch break already?" Marty mumbled against Doc's mouth, winding his arms around Doc's neck. "I'm surprised you're not dining in the hotel restaurant with more of your illustrious cronies." When Doc didn't respond, instead humming against Marty's cheek before kissing him again, Marty took that as an invitation to get bolder. "Hey, Doc. C'mere. _I'll_ show you a room party..."

"That's precisely what I hoped you'd say," Doc murmured, his voice low, _beyond_ tempted.

There was a fine art to misbehaving between con sessions. Marty was startled to realize it had been nearly two years since he'd last done this, and part of him was immensely sorry he'd taken the leave of absence. Doc wasn't as quick as he'd been thirty years ago, or even twenty years ago, but he could still strip down, _unaided_ , faster than Marty could on his off-days.

Marty shoved his newly-shed underthings off the side of the bed, twisting to let Doc, undressed, pull him close. "Ah, _yeah_ ," he sighed, nibbling on Doc's lower lip. "Hey, you. Goodbye to the dry spell we've been in for a couple weeks, huh?" he asked, canting his hips flush against Doc's, content.

"I've been too distracted by con preparation," said Doc, stroking Marty's cheek. "Now I can let go and...enjoy the view," he said, pulling back to take in Marty's expression. "How about _that_?"

 _Housekeeping is gonna hate us_ , Marty thought, giving in to Doc's insistent mouth and weight on him with helpless abandon. He got in some impressive hickeys along Doc's collarbone before he was too far gone to do anything but lie back and let Doc time their finish to perfection. 

Delirious, he wondered how much you could hear through the walls of this particular establishment.

" _Mmm_ ," Doc sighed eventually, startling Marty out of his doze. "I can't stay much longer."

"I should just come along to your next couple panels," Marty said. "These people aren't so bad."

"Well, we've got twelve minutes," replied Doc, disentangling himself from Marty with difficulty.

It was the least fun twelve minutes Marty had passed in _ages_ , not least because his clothes were all over the place and he'd misplaced his badge. Doc was already dressed by the time he'd located it on the floor at the foot of the bed. They made it out the door with thirty seconds to spare.

Marty peeled off and hid himself in the back row once he and Doc sneak into the back of the room in which Doc's next panel _was already seemingly underway_. It was futile, though, because they'd been spotted, and an amused murmur rose when the panel moderator, as Doc strode up to the front and took his seat at the end of the table, said, "We're several minutes past the designated start-time, Doctor Brown. Thank goodness the audience seems to think you're worth waiting for?"

"Apologies all around," Doc said earnestly into the microphone, "but my husband missed me."

Above the delighted applause, somebody in the back row on the opposite side of the room from Marty, deliberately muffling the words, shouted something like _Aw yeah, Doc! Get you some!_

Kasey, two seats down from Marty, leaned and winked at him. Luís, the thirtysomething, cringed with contact embarrassment, mouthing _Sorry!_ Kasey made a _Really?_ face at Luís.

 _Maybe I should make a gift of Tiff's shirts to these two_ , Marty thought, settling in to watch.

 

**October 23, 2015**

"That's really not helpful, Dad," Marty said into his iPhone, hoping he wouldn't accidentally hang up on George again. "You've gotta be a lot more specific about which edition you're looking for."

"First printing of the UK paperback!" George insisted. "There's a fascinating typo in Chapter 10."

Marty flipped through the pages of the battered _A Match Made in Space_ paperback he had in hand. Meanwhile, the secondhand book dealer and Tiff exchanged knowing glances.

"All that stuff they say's true, then?" said the dealer, apparently convinced Marty couldn't multi-task. "He's not so up on his technology and such? I'd say that's endearing given who he's with."

"He somehow managed to hang up on his old man with his _cheek_ a few seconds ago," Tiff whispered loudly in response. "Do you know anybody else on the planet who can manage that?"

"I know the two people on this planet who are most likely to lose my business and get the silent treatment respectively," said Marty, taking the phone away from his ear, nearly dropping the paperback. He managed to recover both the book and the phone, but not without— _shit_.

"Wait for him to call back," said Tiff, patting Marty reassuringly on the arm. "You know he will."

"I know the edition Professor McFly's asking for," said the dealer, apologetically, taking the paperback off Marty's hands. "I also know I haven't got it. I'll ask around for you, how's that?"

"Thanks," said Marty, abashed. "For the record, it's true. Every story Doc's ever told on the blog about me messing up the tech we've gotten our hands on post, oh, let's say _2004_? Accurate."

"It's sweet how polite and honest you are," Tiff remarked as they moved on to the next dealer's table, which seemed to be entirely devoted to _Magic: The Gathering_ cards. "But what you've gotta understand is that you're kinda like an alien visitor here: exotic, yet oddly adorable."

"Hey, are the kids still playing this crap?" Marty asked, changing the subject, gesturing at the rare, extortionately expensive _M:TG_ cards on offer. "Or have they migrated back to Pokémon?"

"Marty, your _dad_ still plays this crap," Tiff pointed out, perusing the contents of the glass table-case. "Oh, _look_! An original 1996 _Alliances_ Helm of Obedience! Score! Why didn't they issue a foil version of this card? It would've been gorgeous. I've always kicked ass with it."

"Dad says he misses you and Ellie for impromptu sessions," said Marty, smirking. "Just FYI."

"George recently devised the most unorthodox use of Dovescape I've ever seen," said Tiff, disgusted. "Until he cuts that incessant bird-token shit out? No thanks, dude. I cry fowl."

"You're just awful," Marty sighed, catching the dealer's eye. "Can we get this Helm card?"

They got not only the Helm card, but _four copies_ of it in pristine condition. Marty knew from the tenor of Tiff's unadulterated glee that the kids would never get their hands on a single one of them, so Marty decided to pick up ten unopened _Origins_ packs to keep them sated.

By the time they caught up with Ellie and Doc for an impromptu lunch in the Con Suite, they'd done an ungodly amount of shopping. When Tiff showed off her new cards, Ellie went green. "Do you even fucking know what those cost?" she seethed. "There's such a thing as budgeting!"

"Gem mint, twenty bucks a pop," Tiff agreed, stirring her turkey chilli. "I didn't pay a single cent."

Marty pretended extreme interest in his soup from one of the crock-pots on the side-table; chicken noodle was usually passable in these circumstances. "I thought she wanted 'em for the kids!"

"It's good to know my featured-guest honorarium went to an excellent cause," said Doc, dryly.

"You're such a kidder," said Ellie, biting into her PB&J sandwich. "They gave you more than that."

"It's a young con," Doc said affably. "They can't afford to pay headliners as much as you'd think."

"I got a bunch of packs for the kids instead, so maybe I blew it all anyway," said Marty, grinning.

"You two are off to another couple of sessions or something?" Tiff asked. "Kickin' it old school?"

"My next one's nearly imminent," said Doc, checking both watches. "Why don't you tag along?"

"It's that one on the pitfalls of publishing blog content," said Ellie. "I thought you were interested?"

"No can do, suckers," said Tiff, slinging an arm across Marty's shoulders. "We've got a pool date."

Marty squirmed in his seat. "I'll take some magazines out and read, but I am _not_ —"

"You're gonna get your sexy butt in those swim trunks I _know_ you brought along," said Tiff, shaking him a little, "and you're gonna swim some laps with me to burn off all this shitty food."

Doc side-eyed the crowd at the next table, who, after a period of silence, giggled uncontrollably. "Maybe you shouldn't broadcast your planned whereabouts in such a careless fashion?"

Marty let go of his plastic spoon, no longer interested in the remaining contents of his styrofoam bowl. "It's not like every person here hasn't told every _other_ person what to look out for," he sighed, wiping his mouth on a napkin. "I'll swim with you, Tiff, but I'm _not_ gonna do laps."

The pool situation wasn't so bad. Because most of the panel-going crowd was deeply sun-phobic, the only people who were out there, for the most part, were young families on vacation and the odd middle-aged individual who'd insisted on chaperoning their teenage offspring to the con. Marty and Tiff ended up playing a game of Marco Polo and batting a beach-ball around with some kids.

They dried off after about forty minutes and decided maybe they should catch Doc's last panel of the day with Ellie. Watching Doc natter knowledgeably on about the limitations of various blogging platforms kind of made Marty regret missing the one on publishing; he scarcely managed to snag a quick see-you-later after the Q&A, as Doc had some important off-site group dinner to attend.

"I'll meet you in the bar at nine-thirty," Doc said, pulling Marty into a brief, fierce hug. "I have it on sound authority the hotel shuttle will get us back around nine-twenty. Keep Tiff out of trouble."

Somebody tapped Marty on the shoulder as Doc rushed off. He turned to find Kasey with one of Doc's books in hand, looking a little crestfallen. Marty tilted his head with a perplexed smile.

"Doc's a tough guy to pin down, isn't he? Hell, I _live_ with him and it's been impossible."

"We're leaving at the ass-crack of dawn tomorrow," Kasey sighed. "I can't make the signing."

"Good grief," Marty sighed. "That sucks." He eyed Kasey's book. "What room are you in?"

Kasey ducked their head, tapping the hardback with nervous fingertips. "We're on your hall. Room 435, down at the very end. Luís spotted you guys coming and going a couple times. Room 415?"

"Yeah, that'll be us," Marty admitted. "Listen, give me the book," he said. "I'll get Doc to sign it and leave it outside your door really late tonight, how's that? I hate to hear you're leaving early."

"Are you kidding?" said Kasey. "I hate that I'm going to miss your panel, too! It's family bullshit."

"Family bullshit's all we've got," said Marty, taking the book off Kasey's hands. "Trust me on this."

"You're an amazing guy," said Kasey, fiddling with their badge, "and Doc's lucky to have you."

"I wouldn't go so far as to say that," said Marty, grinning in spite of himself, "but...hey, thanks."

"Leave it at reception under my name," Kasey added as an afterthought. "I don't want it stolen."

Marty spent most of his second visit to the Dealers' Room with Tiff and Ellie, as well as most of dinner with Tiff and Ellie in the hotel restaurant, being teased about the kid's massive crush on him. Marty attempted several times to point out that Kasey's crush was obviously on _Doc_ , but the girls weren't having any of it. He skipped out on dessert so they could have drinks together.

He woke in a rumpled nest of covers at eight-fifty with the credits to _Ghost_ rolling on TV.

"Don't mock me," Marty told the music, fishing for the remote control. He yawned and killed it.

Once he'd located a fresh set of clothes—dressier, because Doc looked _really_ sharp today—and made his way downstairs, it was obvious the slim handful of nighttime pickings had already gotten underway. The halls were surprisingly empty, as was the bar. There were a couple of traveling businesspeople enjoying lonely beers and watching ESPN. Marty ordered a gin and tonic.

At nine-thirty on the dot, somebody tapped Marty's shoulder. Marty caught the hand and kissed it.

"You'd have been in big trouble if it _hadn't_ been me," said Doc, sliding an arm around Marty's waist from behind. Being up on a stool like this was convenient, Marty found, because it eradicated most of the usual awkwardness of height. "What's on the menu tonight? Can I drink it?"

"You do all right with gin and tonic," Marty asked, offering Doc a sip. " _Mmm_ , Hendrick's."

Doc took the drink out of Marty's hand and swiveled the stool around so they were facing each other. Neither of the businesspeople seemed to be paying them the least attention, although the bartender had fixed them with a cool, interested eye—which, to be fair, meant he hoped Doc would order something sooner than later. Marty closed his eyes and let the kiss happen, reveling in it.

"I love it that you're a rock-star," he said when they paused for breath, "but _God_ do I—"

Whoever had just snapped a picture hadn't even bothered to silence their phone or turn off the flash.

Doc turned his head to stare at the perpetrator before they could even flee; they froze, swallowing.

"Hand it over," he said, his tone calmer and colder than Marty had ever heard it. "Or come here and let me watch while you delete it from every possible album on that device. Do you understand?"

"Yes," said (Marty glanced at the individual's badge, which, _yikes_ , had a press sticker) Tori, flipping through folders, deleting several versions. "Sorry," she winced, unable to meet Doc's eyes.

"I'm still happy to sign your book tomorrow if you've got one!" Doc called after her as she fled.

"I doubt she'll come, Doc," Marty said, tapping Doc's cheek so he'd face him. "Where were we?"

 

**October 24, 2015**

Marty stared at the table neatly set up with five microphones, a stack of plastic cups, and a pitcher of water. He'd insisted on turning up early to get a feel for the room; it was one of the smaller spaces being used for the purpose, but it would still comfortably seat around sixty people.

"This isn't reassuring," he told Tiff. "What if nobody comes? What if _everybody_ comes?"

Tiff shrugged, proudly wearing her _I FANGIRLED DOC BROWN BEFORE IT WAS COOL_ t-shirt. "Either way, what have you got to worry about? If the former, your nerves won't totally fry; if the latter, your ego, still shockingly fragile after all these years, will be appeased."

"This is why you're not my life coach," Marty said, stepping up to the table with determination.

Ellie filtered in with the first handful of people who were keen to get excellent seats; she joined Tiff in the front row, waving at Marty once she'd kissed her wife. Marty pulled a face, saluting them.

"I can't believe you're here," said one of the people who'd taken a seat in the second row, beaming at Marty. Middle-aged, glasses, long hair in a ponytail, eager eyes. "Hard man to track down!"

"I can't believe I'm here, either," said Marty, surrendering to nervous laughter. "Believe me."

"Don't try anything funny," Tiff jibed, glancing over her shoulder. "I'm his security detail."

"Sure thing, honey," Ellie sighed, placatingly patting Tiff's shoulder. "Tell 'em who's boss."

The next few people to arrive were fellow panelists, most of whom Marty liked on-sight. There were two women, one in her twenties and one in her forties; both were married to tech-and-gaming bloggers of considerable renown (which didn't mean a damn thing to Marty: he'd never heard of either one of them). There was also a young man in his mid-twenties whose partner blogged for a successful crowd-funding startup. Marty knew something about that, because Doc had suggested Kickstarter as an option if he and any of his music buddies ever decided to record again.

The moderator, in a this-only-happens-to-Marty-fucking-McFly turn of events, was the same no-nonsense, attractive fitysomething woman who'd moderated the panel to which he'd made Doc late. "I've been trying to track you down all weekend," she said, offering Marty her hand. "I'm Merav."

"I'm Marty, but you knew that," he said, shaking without hesitation. "Sorry about the other day."

"I was willing to give you benefit of the doubt," said Merav, smiling, "but I suspected as much." She took the seat next to Marty, which was the farthest-right at the end. "You'd take any amount of blame for him, wouldn't you? Please, no need to answer that." She poured Marty some water.

Doc wasn't one of the forty-odd people who looked to comprise the final audience at start-time, but that wasn't any surprise. His book-signing was in full swing; if he was lucky, he _might_ get away in time to slip in for the Q &A session of Marty's panel. Marty checked his iPhone one last time as Merav flipped through her notebook. He had a single text: _Break a leg, Future Boy_.

In nobody else's world did such a ridiculous insult-turned-endearment translate to _I love you_.

The panel got off to too brisk a start for Marty's nerves to even fully kick in. Once Merav had prompted them all to introduce themselves, she dug into a ruthlessly organized line-up of discussion topics that didn't leave any time for floundering. Did having a blog-star for a partner present unique domestic challenges? You bet. What were they? Mostly coping with the frequent distractedness and non-existent bedtime, although Marty had to chime in that he'd been well prepared for the weird bedtime hours because Doc hadn't always kept routine ones to begin with.

At this juncture, a full fifteen to twenty minutes were spent on painfully specific personal anecdotes. Once the aggrieved wives and the startup widower had reeled off their tales of woe, Marty figured he had nothing to lose by telling everyone about that time Doc had pulled two consecutive all-nighters just to fix some persistently corrupt HTML. Marty had never been so glad to have him exhausted for _days_.

Just as the laughter that had elicited died down, Merav checked her watch. "We're running short on time," she said. "That ought to lead nicely into our Q&A. Does anyone have a question to start?"

Marty caught wind of a minor commotion at the back while Merav called on Tiff, who made a huge point of waving her arm as obnoxiously as possible. Doc nodded sheepishly to a few people standing at the back as he slipped in the door, tucking himself into a back-row end seat.

"This question's for Mr. McFly," said Tiff, snapping Marty's attention back to the matter at hand. There was something in her stance he didn't like, something in the way she tipped her chin into the traveling mic that made his stomach flip. "You've been with Doc Brown for like thirty years? Wow, man. _Exactly_ thirty years. That's some heavy—"

"I'm gonna tell your hickey story any minute now," said Marty, realizing that Doc's presence had rendered him fearless. "Tiff Tannen, everyone," he continued, introducing her to the audience. "CalTech alum, programming genius, and shameless troll. We went to high school together."

 _Hi, Tiff!_ chorused a handful of smart-asses. Marty was satisfied to see Doc's lips move.

"Look, my point is that thirty years is a _long time_ to put up with somebody like that," Tiff pressed on, smirking, completely undeterred. At the back, Doc pulled a face. "Inquiring minds."

Marty smirked back, warming to his audience. "Maybe I'll tell them about that time you brought one of your girlfriends to our housewarming party without either of your parents' permission, or—"

"Or I could cut right to that time I put you in drag!" countered Tiff, sounding genuinely defensive.

"That's more than enough of an answer," Merav cut in. "Both of you, sit down. Next question?"

Granted, given the circumstances, it was difficult for Merav to get the audience under control. There were one or two people who made a point of saying their question was for the panelists _other_ than Marty, but there were two or three _more_ people who wanted to know if Doc ever apologized for keeping such a manic schedule ("All the time," Marty reassured them) or if he asked Marty to proofread nonsensical drafts at like five in the morning ("He knows better than to ask me for anything at that hour," said Marty, winking at Doc in the back, surprising even himself).

Once Merav had called the session to a close, the wild applause had died down, and most of the attendees had filtered out (a few hung back to talk to the panelists, although Marty was the only one who got asked for his signature, and no fewer than four times), Marty made his way to Tiff and Ellie in the front row. Tiff was in the midst of sulking, arms folded across the text on her shirt.

"I gave them enough to go on for _months_ ," Marty said, satisfied. "All thanks to you."

"They're not gonna be satisfied, McFly," Tiff told him, accepting Marty's shoulder-punch with a sigh. "They'll hope you picked up a taste for this stuff, for getting involved. Next thing you know, they'll be begging you to start a blog of your own. And man, I'm not here for being bored stiff."

"Yeah, but there's somebody who _is_ , so who cares?" asked Ellie, tilting her head toward Doc at the back. "He's too polite to come up here after all that, and I think he's avoiding Merav."

"Yeah, you may be right," Marty said, giving Tiff and Ellie a wave. "See you back in Hill Valley?"

"Are you kidding?" Tiff asked, making suggestive eyes at Ellie. "We're staying out here an extra couple of days. I didn't shell out to hang onto a previously-free hotel room for nothing."

"Then you, _ah_ , you do that," said Marty, making his way back the aisle toward Doc. "Have fun."

"You'd better pick up the dog from our place before locking yourselves in the bedroom till Monday morning!" Tiff shouted after them. "Dad can stand the kids that long, but not your damn furball!"

"Why _doesn't_ anybody ever ask about our pets?" Marty asked, sighing as Doc slid an arm around him. "That history's more interesting than ours in and of itself. Jeez, do I miss Einstein."

"Oh, they ask plenty," Doc reassured Marty, ushering him out into the lobby. "Mostly when you're not around, because I've mentioned on the blog that discussion along those lines upsets you."

Marty paused, gazing up at Doc intently. "They know so much about me already, don't they?"

"Only what they need to know, Marty," Doc reassured him, "and only the best of you besides."


End file.
